by Rachel Marsom-Richmond
After the world becomes a hospital,
a content, controlled safehouse,
when men, women, children
live in every sense enlightened,
in a rush for nothing, a
moving outward, surrounded—
as when in your elderly years the
friendly neighborhood ladies so obviously
secure were only a few blocks away,
flaunting tied-back curtains, open doors—
everyone talked to them, everyone
hugged them every day, everyone watched
their routine of predictability—as
you all say when the day ends
at last, as you hide from the burst of moon,
as we are not here, we give up, and we are leaving.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
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